WeissKreuz Child's Play 1 Toys
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Schuldig spends a night entertaining himself with his favourite toy. He compares Yohji with Crawford and cannot quite make up his mind... surprise, surprise. Male male affection. Twisted kind of romantic approach.


Hi, **Rosemarykiss**, nice to get a lifesign from you! Thanks for reading 'Stalker' and letting me know you liked it!

**Comtess**, your rev on 'Stalker' blew me clean outta the water! Great that it's one of your favs, and thanks for dropping such a nice review!

Cheers  
LH (who is happy to have found two lovely boys to act in his two-minute-film for his university course, duh. They'll be kissing.)

**xxx**

**Child's Play**

**xxx**

Schuldig spends a night entertaining himself with his favourite toy. He compares Yohji with Crawford and cannot quite make up his mind... surprise, surprise.

**xxx**

**Disclaimer:** This story is not for profit, all rights with their current owners.  
**Warnings:** Don't think there are any spoilers in this one. Gore.  
**Rating: M** for gore and male/male affection; references to sex between men.  
**Pairs** (I would not call them couples):Aya/Yohji (destiny interrupted... again, and again, and... Aya's just so damn hopeless!), references to Crawford/Schuldig (smoke and fire).

**xxx**

What a funny night. I sit on the edge of my bed, in the semi-darkness of the small room that, for ease of reference and to annoy Brad, I call my apartment.

He says it's a dump, Far laughs at me, and Nagi… the boy keeps his stupid stony silence that I want to shake out of him, and one of these days I will – when I lose my rag, or when I can catch him off guard. I have no desire to be at the receiving end of his wrath.

So my apartment is just one room, enough to fit my bed against one wall and an old cardboard box with some of my rags on the other, next to the sliding door to the loo with a shower cubicle – I am thin, but in there I can hardly turn without knocking my hip or my ass. On a shelf next to that door stands an electric kettle that I borrowed from Brad's office, which got him cross alright. To no avail, for what I got, I will keep. I also have a microwave there, plus a couple of mugs, a bowl and a spoon. Nothing sharp or pointy 'cos sometimes Far will sleep over here, and even I need to rest sometimes.

But this is MY place. My bolthole. My own. And now I sit here, smoking a joint, and stare at the lifeless form sprawled on my bed. My sheets are clean, he is clean, he is asleep, his mind full of rainbow colours and blasts of pain for he is high and drunk and utterly exhausted from…

Wow, stop here, he did not cry. Shame though, I would love to taste his tears. Would they be salty and bitter, or would he infuse even them with his treacle sweetness? Honey and molasses, the flavour of golden heat… Far understands what I mean, while Brad keeps telling me that gold has no flavour. Man, for all his brains, he can be so wrong sometimes.

So Balinese has crashed out at MY place, on MY bed… and he did come here willingly. Here, to me, tonight. Alone, willing and desperate.

Because Abyssinian threw him out.  
Hah!

I'm itching to get my hands on Balinese, but I can wait. Yes, I can, whatever Far babbles into my mind, and whatever Brad thinks about it - he is wearing such an odd face these days, halfway between annoyance and amusement. But I take my pleasure in watching Balinese, drinking in every tiny detail, everything that he yields to the redhead on a silver platter and withholds from me when he is sober and himself. I observe and savour what is mine now: his closeness. Nothing else. There might never be more, but it is enough, I think. Perhaps. Sometimes Ialmostwish I could settle for this. I sure could, provided Far doesn't get me into one of HIS moods, and Brad leaves me alone for once, and Nagi stops pulling this face whenever he cannot avoid the fact that I don't mind whether it's a guy or a gal I'm having fun with.

Or that Brad thinks he owns me.

So what if he does? He branded me without the need for white-hot steel when he picked me for his team of misfits, some years ago – I forgot how many, it doesn't matter anyway 'cosnow we're in itfor life. We have become Schwarz. We are one unit, one body with four limbs – tear out one of them, andwe will bleed to death. I'm fine with that, too, for it gives me a sense of belonging, a kind of anchor in the mass of colours and smells, the cacophony of sounds and white noise that fills my mind my every waking moment, and spills into some of my dreams as well.Brad knows my headaches are killing me most of the time, and he leaves me to my games. I cannot remember playingwhen I wassmall - we were not allowed toys.

I like good, nice, shiny toys. Tough ones that don't break when I'm playing. Bright ones that can hold their own when I plunge into their minds like a searing blade, to slice into their feelings.

Feel. Pain. Agony. Delight…

We of Schwarz know one another to the core. We are transparent to each other, even Brad is transparent to us in his own ways – we cannot see his thoughts, his mind is a closed fortress, he has schooled his expression, his demeanour into giving away nothing of his self, yet he is our shield, this we know, and with this we can work and live. We are held together by an odd kind of honesty - brutal and unforgiving -other than Weiss who sneak around one another, get tangled in their little lies and deceits, and then are too busy to free themselves to realise that no one can fight alone. Not in our trade.

Take Abyssinian. Tonight I had my chance, and I grabbed it – it is his own fault, after all, for never going out with Balinese. Never, unless a mission demands it. They argued over it again today, how boring, and Balinese decided he had to drown his anger in whatever was at hand. So he went clubbing, and I happened to be around.

As I do.

As I always do. I take care of what is mine. My sheets may be threadbare 'cos I don't like wasting things, so I keep washing them, like my rags, until they fall to bits. I have no iron, and no patience to press them, but they are clean if not spotless; blood is a bitch to wash out of white cotton. I'd like to maul Balinese a bit, just scrub and wash and clean his sweetly muddled mind a little, but then I'm not quite sure I could stop myself when I should, and he might not make it through my laundry session.

After all, he never had to learn how to survive Rosenkreuz. I don't want to break him. Not yet.

Brad had already made a name for himself by the time he found me. I remember the day when he turned up and demanded they leave him alone with me, in the small whitewashed cubicle they called my room. My cell. My prison. I hate enclosed spaces, yet my bolthole has much to remind me of my cell. I relish the pain 'cos it tells me I'm alive.

In spite of everything. I am spiteful.

He taught me that I had not seen anything yet. Where our masters had given up on me 'cos I fought their control tooth and nail, he broke in with nothing but force - I was spoilt for anything else. Not one to waste time, he never bothered with the soft approach. He hit. He manipulated. He even accepted Far on his team when he realised it would give him a lever on me - but I never quite understood what he wanted of me. Until that night when he asked me to sleep with him. He would not have needed to ask. Yet he did, and he was waiting for my answer.

I mattered to him.

The moment I realised, all bets were off. He had me, well and truly, and he damn well knew it. So what? I have him as well, for all the coldness he tries to muster when we're together. Brad Crawford likes my hair, my fire, my bloodymindedness. I like his stillness. It soothes me. When was I not bleeding? I cannot remember, it makes my mind sore to try, so I don't. I need my head to work, and Brad told me he'd drop me if I threaten the team 'cos I don't function. He cannot allow that, but sending me HOME would be worse than a few welts and bruises. It would be the end of me.

Balinese has no idea, and that's fine by me. He couldn't handle it. Not like we do. Not like Brad who knows me better than I do myself, and makes ruthless use of it. He has scoured my mind, scraped out all the rubbish and left it blank and crystal clear and hard and shiny, brittle but workable, full of flashing lights like a strobe ball. I am a polished receiver with a network of whisperfine cracks… I know they're there 'cos sometimes, I fall apart and just seep away into all those lights, a puddle of colours and noise.

I fall, and Brad scrapes me up again.  
I dread the day he gets fed up and just leaves me be.  
In a shower of glittering splinters of ice,strewn over frozen ground and melting away.

I suck some more of the pot smoke into my lungs and let my eyes slide half-shut. Balinese is still asleep, so still, so very still, long limbs relaxed, man, he must be so shitfaced. When I turned up at that club he had picked for his latest escapade, he was dancing – what a show, his long body pulsing in the hard rhythm that thumped through the crammed, smoky club, his movements smooth and forceful as always. He had given himself over to the music, and the music had taken him and was shaping him like some puppet. A beautifulbody on invisible strings...

Thinking of it... no. It would spook him. Unlike Abyssinian who is a sucker for this kind ofentertainment. How sick.

Balihad hoped – again, the fool – to talk Abyssinian into coming along, that's why he looked rather tame in black jeans and shirt, and a dark green blazer. Smart, tasty, sex on legs; he just can't help it 'cos it's the way he moves, confident and effortless, and his eyes that always, always seem to hold some promise or another… He does notkeep his promises. I hate that. I always, always keep mine.

So he was dancing alone.

He did not invite that bloke to pullat his blazer. But that's what happened; the guy who tried to get into Bali's pants was even taller than him, half a head perhaps. He is not any more 'cos Far agreed that it was a good idea to cut off the offending few inches, in the name of fairness. So now that guy has half a head and lies somewhere near the docks in some stinking alley. But back then, at the club, he pressed up against Bali's pretty behind and had him in a grip that was too strong for the blond to fight. Not that he tried. He had gotten himself high on something, though I suspected the barman had an agreement with the tall guy. The bartender had mixed the Bali's drink instead of serving him one of those sealed small bottles. So down he went, with all his experience, for he'd been preoccupied with thoughts of Abyssinian and did not pay proper attention. Careless. Abyssinian had been careless to let go of him like that.

I am not careless. I take care to keep my promises.

I saw the tall guy rock against Baliwho did not seem to mind all that much, beyond some vague discomfort perhaps, as long as he could dance, all smooth motion and heat, oozing this sweetness that one day will be his undoing. It wasn't the only thing oozing there, in that dark, laser-lit club, amid the press of bodies, and then I saw that the tall guy was not alone but had turned up with a bunch of his mates, the lot of them in leather and studs, not that I'd minded, but…

It annoyed me to see them home in on Balinese, beginning tofeel him up. He was too far gone to react, other than putting up some sluggish token resistance when two of them sandwiched him and began to dance him towards the door to the men's bathroom.

I got reallycross at that. I looked at Far, who gave me this knowing half-smile and winked at me with his single eye. It makes me dizzy when he does this, and me getting dizzy means trouble. In this case, for those guys who dared to lay their stupid hands on what was mine. So the particular kind of trouple they were about to get looked exactly like me, along with my dear single-amber-eyed colleague.

Balinese is stirring a little in my sheets, his long hard hands clawing into the mattress. A ratherworn and ratty mattress, but mine too, and I bed on it whoever I fancy – not that there are many I do fancy: most of my toys break before they get here, others I don't wantto sully my space with their stink of blood and fear.

He smells good. Of cigarettes, sex and booze, but underneath that I smell earthy sweetness. When he is out cold like this, I can touchand kiss him. I can do whatever I like to him, and knowing this is like a headrush of power – perhaps that's what Brad feels when we are together.

Yet I opt not to do anything, and being able not to do anything is the most powerful sensation I've ever known'cos I have a hold over myself, over my fantasies that unvariably move in bleeding circles. My blood in this instance and when Brad's involved. Toyblood in all others.

The room is cool, my head is hot, glowing, and I can feel a thin sheen of sweat, sticky on my heated skin. It was fun to see Far stick his knife into the heart of the guy who had plastered himself to Bali's front. A finger-long, very thin blade, like a dainty slaughterhouse sticker, without a handle so that Far could just leave it where it stuck to stop the blood from making a pulsing mess all over the place. The bloke collapsed without a sound and got dragged off after becoming a hindrance on the dance floor. They did pay no attention to the smear of dampness on the floor as they cleared him away, thinking he'd overdosed and needed to sleep it off. They propped him against the outside wall like a bag of trash, and in the morning when he sat in a puddle of congealing blood, he was stiff and cold and so dead…

Far took his pleasure, and I caught Balinese against my body – oh, he felt damn good, and he was giving me a bleary smile, and I realised with some surprise that he recognised me when he slung his arms around my neck and tried to walk by himself. No way.

The tall guy wanted an argument, stupid as he was. Far had no trouble to lure him outside, and there he used a knee to the bloke's groin, and then the large blade he tends to keep in his boots. He just made the guy half a head shorter. Literally. Poked around in his brains a bit only to wind up disappointed and filthy. So I sent him home to wash and get himself tidied up. He was fretting for he thinks he needs to keep me safe.I could tell hewas uneasy,but he rarely argues with me, and left me with an armful of boneless Bali.

I was wondering whether I should just have my piece of candy and eat it, now that it was draped so invitingly over me.

But I had made a promise to myself. I wantedhim to like me. I wanted him to share some of this warmth that he wastes so liberally on that ice prick he's in love with. Hopelessly, forlornly, like some dumb Romeo, and if I'm not careful and keep an eye on him, he might end up just like that fool did.

So not yet. I could not just drag him around the corner and screw him into the wall, and he was in no state to do anything. I had to take him…

Well, I took him to his place. This shop, stinking of dead flowers and dead soil and dead souls. I could see Abyssinian hover by the window above the shop, his pale and red shadow ghostly in the orange glow of the streetlamp on the opposite side of the road.

He had been waiting.  
He would have been waiting forever if I'd not been at that shitty club.  
One day, I will teach him to be grateful.

Not now. Now, Balinese is writhing uneasily, groping for something to hold on to. Okay, I lend him my hand that is not occupied with smoking, 'cos I'm half-curious of what he will do. He grabs it and clenches his fingers round mine in a crunching, bruising grip. "Don't leave." He is not talking to me. I know he isn't though even to imagine it sends a hot rush through my pot-fevered limbs. All this thinking's taking its toll on my poor head. Brad says it's because I should have been an artist of sorts. In another life. He told me I'm too raw, my mind to sensitised. I thought that was the idea? He walked away from me when I threw that at him.

How did we end up here, then?

I dragged him to that house, and Abyssinian was down the stairs and tore open the backdoor in a flash. He stood on the threshold, his face blank, his eyes too dark for me to read in the dull light, but I knew what I would find there anyway: rage. Disappointment. Utter desolation. How wonderful. I could taste his bitterness, and I loved every drop of it.

"Aya?" Balinese slurred, his pretty eyes warming with a smile as he strained away from me.

And what did the idiot reply but, "Come back when you are sober."

Slamming the door shut, right in our faces. Oh, how good, how very beautiful. I had done nothing to achieve this, and Abyssinian had just thrown Balinese into my lap, from Weiss with love. I really couldn't believe my luck, so utterly undeserved. Well, no. I had earned it.

But for allAbyssinian knew, I was their enemy.  
For all he cared, I could have killed Balinese there and then.  
Which would not please their chibi and his friend, the soccer player.

I do admit, I felt deliriously pleased.  
Brad won't be.

But last night, Balinese was knocking on that door and calling out to his lover; then helurched tothe front door too, yet no one would answer because their chibis had gone out, and Abyssinian had gone back to bed. So I had no choice, but I had Balinese.

Who had me.  
I told him.  
And finally, he came along willingly.

Well, in fact we each said a few more words before the door fell shut. Me, "I only brought him back…"

Abyssinian, "Then you can keep this… thing."

And Balinese, "Aya, please…"

And me, while I was hugging Balinese, "See? But perhaps he's just cross. Perhaps it's not what it seems, and he loves you after all. Why don't you ask?"

Ah, fogged minds are easy to play with. He did ask, and I could hear his tone crack ever so slightly, and then Abyssinian turned his back, and I could feel Balinese's mind crack as well. Crack. Ever so slightly. But a crack is a crack, I know all about this, and you can mend and glue them together, they'll still be there, like some piece of restored china, pretty, smooth, yet never whole again.

"Aya, do you love me?"

I could have told him, but he won't listen to me. So I just waited while he stood there, staring thunderstruck at the closed door behind which Abyssinian was hiding his powerless jealousy, and then I caught him when he sagged. For the second time that night, I had him in my arms: warm, firm, unhappy.

It won't last, I know, I'm not stupid. He won't stay, Abyssinian won't see this through, their chibi will read him the riot act -Bombay is clearheaded and cool, his trust in Balinesenot easy to shake - I respect that. It reminds me of us, of Schwarz.Abyssinian mighteven turn up here. Perhaps run into Brad, and they will glare at one another – quite funny to imagine – and each retrieve what they think is their property. Brad will tell me off 'cos even though he can see the attraction, he thinks it's beneath me, this whole affair. Balinese will return with Abyssinian to what they call their life because that's what he always does; he has nowhere else to go; I might dream for a while but I know I cannot keep him, andhe will think of their chibis as well.

And of me.

I know he will. He told me he does not like the marks Brad makes on my skin. He does not understand that it takes trust to let Brad do this, that I want it, that it makes me feel wanted. That Brad trusts that I won't kill him afterwards. He knows when to stop, I know what I can ask for. We know one another with an intimacy begotten by the ultimate trust, and even though I can feel Balinese in his delicious heat, he will not give me what I need. He is unable to inflict pain for pleasure, and unwilling to take it.

"You like this too,"he mumbles groggily, even as his hand lets go of mine and cautiously strokes up my bare arm.

Was I talking aloud?

"Yes you were, dumbhead," he says, his lips numb from the aftershock of what went into his system last night.

I stare down at him, pale in the fading darkness, and he holds my gaze with clouded green eyes. "It's your bed," he says, tensing to shift towards the wall a bit more. "Crawl in, idiot. I won't bite."

I wouldn't mind that, but I won't tell him. I don't fancy talking right now, and I do as he says.

"Snuff that damn joint," he commands quietly.

So I do this as well.

"You shouldn't knock what you have," he goes on even as he turns his face to the wall, back to me, his tousled blond head pillowed on one arm, the other one pressed against his stomach. "Maybe it's more than I got."

Wonder where this is going. He is warm. He feels a bit like Brad, all long and sleek and hard.

"At least he's hanging on to you." And with that, he falls silent, and a little later I hear him snoring ever so softly.

I am in bed with my dream.  
And when I think about it, maybe it's still not quite what I'm after.  
Schwarz are honest with one another. And in the morning, I will have to tell Brad that he's won.

THE END


End file.
